Sometimes I think to myself, This is the best playlist I’m ever going to make. It feels largely random, originating not from a moment of superb inspiration or divine prescience, but from the confluence of a few perfect songs that find me at the right time. When I finish one of these playlists, I know that I’ll return to it, that it will reappear in my rotation at some point down the line. This week, I had a sudden recollection of “The First Cut Is the Deepest” that led me back to this playlist, one of my favorites ever.
I had a long, cold winter of somewhere around fifteen years of my life in which I forgot that Sheryl Crow existed. My mom had a CD of her self-titled album in the car (along with Fleetwood Mac (1975), The Way We Were (1974), The Very Best of the Eagles (2003), and the original Broadway cast recording of A Chorus Line), and thus it became a foundational aspect of my musical taste, an influence so deep that I couldn’t even identify it as such. I grew up, started listening to my own music, and consciously shed my attachment to Sheryl Crow.
Except I didn’t, couldn’t, because Sheryl Crow is ingrained in me, integral to my songwriting and my vocal performance style. I first rediscovered “If It Makes You Happy.” It appears almost exactly one hundred playlists before this one on 175 heavenly, and it’s not even the title track. Then another year went by in which I continued to neglect the genius that is Sheryl Crow’s discography. It wasn’t until my freshman fall of college when I came to my senses and realized that Sheryl Crow made perfect music.
I wish I could say that I remember when I first heard a Sheryl Crow song in my adulthood that felt like the universe thumping me on the forehead, but I don’t. That does happen to me sometimes; I had forgotten about Radiohead for quite a few years and heard “Reckoner” playing out of tinny speakers at an airport Starbucks at four in the morning. I was so delirious at that hour that it felt like God was smiling down upon me, bringing something beautiful and perfect—by that I mean In Rainbows (2007)—back into my life, gently guiding me into the light. Sheryl Crow was more of a slow burn, an artist whose value I had to come to terms with and learn to appreciate all over again.
“The First Cut Is the Deepest” is one of Sheryl Crow’s most iconic songs, a wonderfully upbeat lament on the nature of first love. I’m feeling physically ill right now after doing a quick Google search and being accosted with the information that this song is actually a cover, originally written by Cat Stevens in 1965. My world has been altered, shattered. I’m going to attempt to square this frankly disturbing fact in my mind. Although I can’t quite imagine this man writing about what I previously believed to be Sheryl Crow’s real life heartbreak, I’ll leave these iconic lyrics here:
The first cut is the deepest
When it comes to being lucky, he's cursed
When it comes to lovin' me, he's worst
One perfect song does not a perfect playlist make. It takes two, in this case, the aforementioned Sheryl Crow banger and “Sister Golden Hair” by America:
Like “The First Cut Is the Deepest,” this song is wildly transportive. It’s kind of scary how uncontrollably good this song makes me feel, like riding my bike on a sunny day. It’s impeccable top to bottom—the bop-doo-wop backing vocals, little guitar licks, pedal steel features, the drum fill that kicks off the second verse:
Well, I keep on thinking 'bout you, sister golden hair surprise
And I just can't live without you, can't you see it in my eyes?
I’ve been one poor correspondent, and I’ve been too, too hard to find
But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind
I love when a songwriter crafts a verse that’s so good they know they should just repeat it again with more sauce after the chorus. The other example that comes to mind is “I Wish I Was the Moon” by Neko Case; it’s so satisfying to hear something familiar but louder, something you can sing along to. Sometimes, less is way more.
I went way back in my texts to find a conversation with my best friend in which we had what I think was first musical disagreement. We have largely the same taste and there hasn’t been another instance since this one that spiraled into such a heated discussion. I was flabbergasted, felt personally betrayed. It all started with this bonkers message:
I’ve never been so offended by an opinion that had nothing to do with me. A few days ago I came across this NPR piece in which my favorite music critic revealed that he also does not care for Fleetwood Mac. I can’t pretend to understand anyone’s grievances with Rumours (1977); it’s a landmark, a nearly perfect album (if someone can convince me that “Oh Daddy” is a good song, I’ll happily amend my take). The summer between eighth grade and freshman year, I only listened to Days Are Gone (2013) and Rumours on an infinite loop. I know every song so completely, every harmony, every hit.
I’ll defend Rumours with my life. The four members’ emotional turmoil resulted in a frankly genius record, imbued with drama and pain along with musical expertise. It continues to be a huge influence on modern music and has maybe only risen in relevance as it’s aged. I know it’s been an inspiration to me. We’re lucky to be living in a post-Rumours world.
As someone that's spent most of their adult life at an airport--I'm typing this from one--I can confirm that the music is sometimes magic. Some mornings it feels like the fluorescent/washed out sound of REM's "Airport Man." Sometimes it's much more upbeat. Either way, it's always alive.
I think there's, like, 10 of us, but I've always felt that Mirage was better than Rumours. Maybe a hot take. But to not like Fleetwood Mac at all? Heresy!